Pie-Eyed
by darthsydious
Summary: Greg's stag night. Sherlock and John get a little drunk. Molly has to come pick them up. Shenanigans ensue.


Being seven months pregnant, moving was awkward. Anywhere Molly went it felt like she had a weighted beach ball attached to her front and there was nothing she could do about it. Molly hadn't seen her feet for about three months, and Sherlock had taken to lining up her shoes according to color, so she could just step into them and go (lace-ups? Do be reasonable). Sitting up, unless propped up, was a chore, getting up was like trying to get out of a beanbag chair. Once in bed, she intended to stay there until her alarm went off. Or the urge to pee hit, whichever came first. A text from Sherlock did not count as a reason to get out of bed. But by the eighth one, she managed to prop herself up on her elbow, squinting as she touched the screen of her phone, scrolling through the messages.

_Think I've been drugged._

_SH_

_Not 'those' drugs, I mean the stuff you put in someone's cup. Rate-dape drug._

_SH_

_I mean the date-rape drug. Don't worry. Has no effect on me. Am perfectly able to stand. _

_SH_

_Leaning. I'm perfectly able to lean._

_SH_

_Can't think straight. May need you to come get us. _

_SH_

_Ignore him, Molly, it wasn't a drug. He's drunk._

_JW _

_This is John. BTW. I'm drunk too. Shh. Don't tell Mary. _

_JW_

_Ignore John. I've been taken advantage of. Not like that. _

_SH_

Before she could even think about responding, the phone rang in her hand.

"Hello? Sherlock? What's the matter, what happened?"

"Got roofied,"

"You did not, you sot, we're drunk!" John shouted from the background.  
"Where are you? What's that music in the background?"

"A club," Sherlock answered.

"Why are you in a club? I thought you were on a case."

"Lied, obviously."

"Then what are you _doing_?!"

"It's a stag night. Grant's stag night!" Sherlock said cheerfully. Molly frowned.

"Who is Grant?"

"Greg!" John shouted over the phone.

"Greg, right, its Greg's stag party."

"Well where is he?"

"I dunno…he disappeared somewhere…"

"Sherlock, _where are you?_"

"A club."

"_Which _club?"

"Dunno-"

"Noisy one!" John shouted. "S'noisy!"

"No that's not it," Sherlock replied. "It's uhh…uhh…Ashtrays Pilots…something like that…"

"Go find Greg."

"No, he'll arrest us. He arrested us before you know. John's stag night."

"Yes, I heard."

"He shouts at us when we're drunk,"

"You deserved it, I'm sure,"

"I was clueing for looks- no…you know what I mean. I was on a case…so I don't need his attitude at me-"

"Sherlock, why are you calling me?"

"Because you're my wife."

"COME GET US!" John bellowed.

"Yes, come get us…" there was a long pause. "Please."

"Where's Mary? Can't she come get you?"

"Nnnnoooooooooope."

"Why not?! She's not seven months pregnant!"

"She's going to frown at us, and besides, she can't leave Ella, think it through, Molly." Sherlock replied. Ella was John and Mary's baby, and did not often sleep through the night. As 221a had been silent since nine 'o'clock, Molly could only assume this was one of the rare nights that Mary would have peace and quiet.

"I hate you," Molly grumbled.

"You love me."

"At the moment it must be the only thing keeping me from reaching through the phone and strangling you."

"That's physically impossible, not to mention ridiculous-" the dial-tone buzzed in his ear and Sherlock frowned at his phone. "She hung up." He turned to look at John, who was attempting to dance with a support beam, drink in hand.

"Is she coming to get us?"

"Think so." He made to step down from the bar, his knees giving way. "Woah, woah-" he held a hand up towards John. "You okay?"

~O~

Molly stared up at the club. The tracking chip in Sherlock's phone directed her to a club called "Aphrodite's Palace" not 'Ashtrays Pilots' as Sherlock had previously informed her. Tugging the front of her coat, glancing down at her belly, she took a breath, pushing the door to club open. The bass was so loud she felt as if her hair were vibrating. And that was just in the lobby. Someone pushed open one of the shiny black doors and she could see men all sitting around tables, half-naked women lolled about on just about every surface in there before the door shut again and mercifully cut off the scene inside.

"You lost, lady?" the doorman asked.

"Uh…yes- no, I'm not, I'm looking for someone, two men," Molly answered over the pounding music. "One is very tall, he's got dark, curly hair-"

"He got a short friend?"

"Yes!"

"They're over there," the man pointed to another doorway where the bar was situated, there was one bartender, waitresses came in and out with drink-laden trays. She could see at the far end was Sherlock, twirling his scarf around, attempting some kind of dance.

"I hope they haven't been any trouble," Molly said to the bouncer.

"Not really, the tall one insulted a few of the waitress that tried to serve them, but mostly they've stood over there, they had a friend, but some skinny guy what looked like a weasel hauled him out." That must have been Mycroft. Why he pulled the groom-to-be out of the club and not her husband, she'd discuss with him later.

"How much have they had to drink?" she asked.

"Ehh, from what I could see the tall one had five pints never saw anyone shotgun five in one go, mind; don't know about the short one. Don't think this was their first stop of the night."

"Thank you," Molly answered, pushing through the crowd over to where John and Sherlock were (sort of) standing. "Sherlock," she tugged on his sleeve. "Sherlock," he turned, his face lit up, beaming at her.

"Molly!" John waved from where he was dancing.

"Molly there's music here, we should dance-" Sherlock made to take her by the hand, "Let's go dance over there, on the floor with the music playing, it will be just like at John's wedding…only we didn't dance then- OH!" he gasped, eyes wide. "It's a make-up dance, making up…for missing dancing. I love to dance,"

"No, Sherlock, I don't want to dance, I want to take you home,"

"Ooo, saucy are we?" his eyes twinkled as he reached over, pinching her bottom.

"Sherlock,"

"Molly," his expression was serious then, and he looked at her, all warmth in his eyes. He leaned close, weaving as he almost looked down her coat. "Are you wearing your pyjamas?"

"Yes, Sherlock," she'd thrown on a pair of leggings, deciding not to change out of her sleep shirt, hoping her winter coat would hide it. "Now let's go home." Heaven help her, if she had to stare down one more bikini-clad waitress, she was going to throw something. It was bad enough she was standing in the middle of a 'gentleman's' club in her natty old coat, let alone looking the size of a bloody car. "John, come on, leave that alone, we're going home,"

"Sorry," John said to the support beam. "My ride's here, you're a lovely person I'm sure but I'm married," he pointed to his wedding ring, spilling his drink. "I'm married to a lovely lady, most- most beautiful woman on planet earth. Hey! You know how the earth goes around the sun, my friend doesn't know that, he deletes information, but he knows about ash-" Molly grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back out, Sherlock on her other arm.

"I've got a cab waiting," Molly said, ushering them out onto the sidewalk.

John plodded along beside them, still holding his now-empty glass.

"Where's Greg?" he asked loudly. Molly fumbled through her pockets for her phone.

"With Anthea, Mycroft took him home apparently," she answered, reading the latest texts.

"Honk," Sherlock poked her breast, snorting out a laugh. Molly stared up at him, not quite horrified, but certainly furious at him. He grinned cheekily at her, reaching over again. "Honk-honk- ow!" Molly's palm made contact with his face and he let go, rubbing his cheek, grumbling.

"Get in the cab," she pointed to the open door.

"Mollyyyy-"

"Get. In. The _cab_-"

"He's drunk-" John informed her, blinking slowly.

"That goes for you to," she pushed John in after Sherlock, pushing both of them over so she could crawl in, slamming the door behind her. "221 Baker Street please," she said and the cabbie nodded. "What on earth possessed either of you to drink like that?" she scolded.

"Blending in," Sherlock said, head on her shoulder. John was tapping out random beats on his trouser leg. He leaned over suddenly, breathing on the window; he wrote: _John + Mary_ in the fog, grinning back at it. Sherlock opened his eyes, suddenly sitting up. "Oh! John, John there's a sun-roof in this cab!"

"Don't you dare," Molly grabbed him by the collar before he could sit up all the way and hit the button. "It's December, Sherlock, you open that window I will throw out all your cultures currently stored in the morgue."

"But…" he made a face.

"Just sit down and be quiet," she ordered, forcing his head back onto her shoulder before tapping out a message to the elder Holmes.

_You. 221b Baker Street, tomorrow morning._

_MollyH_

_I'm afraid I'm busy tomorrow, Molly, there is a wedding that afternoon, do you recall? My PA is going on a two week honeymoon, leaving me, for lack of better words, royally screwed over._

_MH_

_You left my husband in strip-club; drunk off his rocker- do you have any idea what it's like for a woman in my condition to walk into a place like that? _

_MollyH_

_I imagine you held yourself with great dignity in the prescence of those who apparently have neither the will nor the desire to do anything other than perform lewd dances for poor-excuses of men in the hopes that their self worth will escalate if enough pounds are stuffed into their pants._

_MH_

_BAKER STREET, MYCROFT. NINE AM. THIS IS NOT A REQUEST. _

_MollyH _

They finally arrived at 221b and the cabbie, having endured Sherlock deducing him to within an inch of his life and John breathing down his neck, not only staring at the scar on his throat but also discussing and wondering in length how he achieved it, was tipped generously by Molly.

"Best of luck with them," he said and sped off, leaving John and Sherlock weaving on the sidewalk as Molly fished through her pockets for her key.

"You'd better stay with us," Molly said to John. "If you wake the baby Mary will probably throw you out on your ear,"

"My baby does the hanky-panky-" John sang.

"_Shh!_"

"John! John!" Sherlock hissed at him in a shouted-whisper. "Let's play a game,"

"Game?"

"Games!" Sherlock declared. "That guessing game with the sticky paper, or the one with the cups and the ping-pong ball-"

"No, no games," Molly pulled them into 221b, shutting the door after them. "You're both going to bed, John, take the sofa," she pushed him toward the couch. He stumbled over to it, falling face-first onto the cushions "Sherlock,"

"Bed?" he suggested hopefully.

"Bed," Molly answered. He grinned in response, but she turned him about, ushering him down the hall. "Now."

"Greg didn't push us," he grumbled.

"I don't care, get out of those clothes-"

"Oo-"

"NOW, Sherlock!" he obeyed, stripping down to his skivvies to some tune only he could hear, winking and clicking his tongue at her as he went. She threw a t-shirt over his head, tossing a pair of bottoms at him. "Put those on, you can shower in the morning." Sullenly, he pulled his legs through, tying the drawstring with some difficulty before crawling over the blankets.

"I'm not –"

"Shh!" she hissed at him.

"I'm not sleepy," he whispered.

"_I'm_ sleepy," she groused. "And the baby is sleepy,"

"Baby is sleepy," he murmured, he leaned over, tugging at her nightshirt so he could kiss her belly. "G'night baby," he murmured. In a few moments, when he didn't move, Molly realized he was asleep. Sighing, she shut her eyes.

"Peace at last," she mumbled.

~O~

**The Next Morning**

Slowly, consciousness dawned on Sherlock, visions of the night before, somewhat fuzzy, came in brief snatches. Suddenly, the drapes were snapped open and sunlight filled the room. He sat up with a gasp,

"Oh God-" he fell back, covering his face.

"Good morning!" Mary answered a touch too chipper, and perhaps several octaves higher than necessary. "Breakfast is ready Sherlock,"

"Go. Away."

"Oh but Molly made your favorite!" she said, dragging the covers off him. "Fresh kippers, toast and beans, and nice, gooey, dippy eggs-"

"Ohhhh," someone from the other room groaned, stumbling for the bathroom.

"Molly…_why_?"

"Get up," she said, there was bite in her voice now, and Sherlock actually opened his eyes. "Get up and apologize to your wife." With that Mary left the room, Ella on her hip.

Sherlock managed to drag himself out of bed, standing proved to be an art form that he had not yet mastered this particular morning. He found his dressing gown, managing on the third try, to get his arms in it.

Shuffling out to the kitchen, hair in every direction, he blinked, momentarily blinded by the light pouring in the living room.

"_Sod this, more light? Why in God's name is the sun so bright?" _At the kitchen table, John sat staring into the middle distance, hand between his knees. A cup of tea was placed before him, steam curling up over the rim.

Oh. _Tea. _

Sherlock could write sonnets for his want of tea at that very moment. A cup was suddenly held under his nose, and he inhaled deeply, sighing.

"Thank you Molly," he murmured, taking it from the outstretched hand.

"Mycroft, do you take sugar?" Sherlock's bliss of his first sip of tea was gone in an instant. He turned slowly, seeing his brother seated in the living room (in _his_ chair, the bloody git), accepting a cup from Molly's hand.

"Just one lump, thank you," he said, and Molly obliged. "Good morning Sherlock." He scowled at this.

"What are you doing here?"

"Molly invited me, wasn't that kind of her?" Molly gave the elder Holmes a saucer bearing a sticky bun.

"I don't want breakfast," Sherlock declared. The toast popped up in the machine, the noise grating on his ears. With more force than necessary, he was sure, Molly slammed a plate down on the counter, turning back to him.

"Well I didn't want to fish you two out of that club last night," she snapped. He looked back across the table, John slowly blinking. Mary, who had been quiet up until that point, set a plate down before her husband, moving his cup of tea aside.

"You'd better eat too, wedding is in six hours and you're the best man. I'm sure it'll take you that long to even begin feeling yourself,"

"Hmm," he mumbled. He looked at the beans oozing down the sides of the toast, two kippers and a slice of bacon beside a gooey egg and felt his stomach groan in protest. He looked up at Mary, then back at the plate.

"You dare ask for something else after what you two put Molly through," she said, low so Molly wouldn't hear. "And I'll put you both on diaper duty for the rest of the month." Another plate was set before Sherlock. They both looked at the food, then across the table at each other. Sighing heavily, John tucked in. Sherlock had the decency to mumble a quiet 'thank you' to Molly before breaking the yolks of his eggs. He was sure this was some kind of revenge, but he'd not let her know it was working like a charm. Swallowing down the nausea he took a bite of the toast and kippers, chewing furiously. Mycroft seemed perfectly content to sip his tea, thoroughly enjoying watching John and Sherlock fight to keep their breakfast down.

"May I be of any assistance, Molly?" he asked pleasantly.

"No thank you, you helped enough last night," she answered tartly, and Sherlock felt a little mean gladness rise up. She wasn't only mad at him, at least.

After breakfast John and Mary headed back upstairs while Molly cleared up. The way she was rattling the dishes gave Sherlock pause.

"_Must_ you do that?" he asked. She slammed the pan down on stove, glaring at him.

"Yes I must."

"Nothing happened last night," He said. She looked at him.

"I don't ever want to go into a place like that ever again."

"Neither do I." another glare. "It wasn't our _intention_ to go to one of _those_ places," he insisted. "We thought it was a bar."

"A club called _'Aphrodite's Palace'_? Just what did you expect to find there?" Mycroft asked with a snort.

"Not that," he replied with a frown. "And nobody asked you, Mycroft!"

"Touchy,"

"We kept to ourselves, stayed mostly by the bar," Sherlock said to Molly.

"'Mostly'?"

"Well I had to go to the toilet at one point."

"Aren't you wondering what happened to Greg?" Molly asked.

"Mycroft picked him up, I called him." Mycroft's nod confirmed this. She finished clearing off the table so Sherlock took the box down from the top of the fridge, carefully unpacking the microscope and stack of petri-dishes that housed several cultures.

"We can't have the groom found in a place like that."

"Just two married men," she folded her arms over her belly.

"I saw to it that nobody bothered us, only the bartender waited on us." She gave him a withering look. "Molly, do you really think that I of all people would go _looking_ for a _lap dance?_ My addiction was drugs, not sex."

"She feels insecure about her weight as well as the fact that you had been surrounded by women with a penchant for body pasties and assets perkier than norm," Mycroft said.

"Thank you, Mycroft," Molly ground out.

"You invited me here, only trying to help," he shrugged. His phone buzzed in his pocket so he took it, reading the text quickly. "Well you'll have to sort this out yourself, I'm afraid, I'm off to a meeting, see you all at the wedding, God-willing," Mycroft said and left the flat.

The silence stretched between them. Molly sighed heavily, leaning against a kitchen chair.

"Did you honestly think I would be unfaithful to you?" he asked quietly.

"Sherlock, I'm seven and a half months pregnant, I can't see my feet, you have to help me put my socks on, I'm covered in stretch marks and the most action either of us has gotten was you _poking_ my breasts last night before I slapped you. I _panicked_." He paused then, thinking hard for a moment.

"Oh. Yes. I did. Sorry about that, I didn't hurt you did I?"

"No," she grumbled. "I just…" she sighed tiredly. "I'm fat, I'm moody, I'm uncomfortable, and I had to walk into a club last night to find my husband like some wife who can't trust the man she married."

"You can trust me," he insisted. He disliked the thought of Molly losing faith in him. When all others turned aside, Molly was his constant, never doubting him.

"I _know_ I can," she said, and if she saw him sigh with relief, she didn't say. "I _know_ nothing went on last night because that isn't who you are, I just…I was embarrassed, Sherlock, I'm the size of a whale, and to be surrounded by women who are prettier than me, thinner than me, all…" she waved her hands searching for words. "Looking like they do with their…breasts everywhere and their stupid pretty pants-"

"Their…_pants?_" now he was completely lost. What did underwear have to do with anything?

"I haven't been able to wear anything nice for almost four months," Molly groused. "Maybe that doesn't matter to you, but it does to me. Everything's a bloody control top and stupid granny sized something or other, it's like a circus tent or something."

"I don't care what pants you wear."

"You cared when we got married," she sniffled. He hugged her outright, tucking her head under his chin.

"Those women were _certainly_ not prettier than you, and pregnant is different than fat." He smiled down at her then.

"Don't think you can just charm your way out of this one, I've decided to be upset with you for at least another hour." He squeezed her then, just a little.

"Feel better?"

"A little."

"Good." He kissed the top of her head, letting go of her. He headed to the bathroom where he promptly threw up his breakfast. Molly rolled her eyes, following after him. "_That_ _was_ revenge, pure and simple," he said, almost gagging again as he flushed the toilet.

"Yup." She grinned, folding her arms over her belly.

"_Now_ do you feel better?"

"Most definitely." He lurched over the toilet so she turned, leaving him in peace.

She went to the front door where Mary was passing by with a half-full bin bag, clearly in a hurry to get it out of the house. Up in 221a they could hear John groaning. Holding out her free hand, Mary gave her a satisfying high-five, grinning all the way downstairs.


End file.
